


Luxury

by stephanericher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is a luxury, for both of them. The longer they spend wasting it, the less time they have to prepare; if they push things back to make up then the enemy has even more time to prepare for them, and if they don’t get things for tomorrow planned today then they won’t be able to make further alterations as they come until they catch up. Microseconds can make the difference between survival and certain death—which Ren knows. It doesn’t need repeating, and perhaps Hux is saying it more to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luxury

Ren’s not been back even a fortnight before the Supreme Leader decides to send him away again. Neither Ren nor Snoke will tell Hux too many details of the journey or the task, and to some extent Hux supposes he doesn’t need to know—but really, that’s only a way of rationalizing it to himself. Even if he doesn’t understand all this Force stuff it’s still business what his co-commander (or whatever the hell Ren’s official title is) is up to, even if it doesn’t directly affect his ship or his crew. The more knowledge he has, the more accordingly he can plan.

There’s a personal component to it, too, but Hux reminds himself that if it were only that he wouldn’t want to know so badly, he wouldn’t consider the impudence of demanding that information from Snoke and he wouldn’t keep asking Ren. It’s mostly—mostly—related to his work, his plans, how whatever mission Snoke has for the master of the Knights of Ren fits in with the overall scheme for galactic domination, what he should and should not do.

But still, just as Hux has adjusted to having him around again, Ren is leaving. And, he supposes, that is his most immediate concern.

“Can you at least tell me for how long?”

“A few months, at most,” says Ren, turning away.

He’s seated on the edge of the bed, removing his boots—carefully, for once, instead of tearing them off like bandages from raw wounds, scattering the dirt and grime from the soles onto Hux’s clean beige carpeting. It’s something, under different circumstances, Hux might appreciate—but now there are more pressing concerns, the planned annexation of two more systems that they won’t have Ren for and the recalculations of which squadrons to put where that result from knowing that. And there is Ren, right here for the moment (but not for much longer), the suddenness with which he turns back to face Hux and swings his long legs up onto the bed.

“Are you going to miss me?”

Ren rolls over to capture the side of Hux’s waist in one large, soft hand; Hux makes a noise in the back of his throat. He is not going to reply—even if it’s a rhetorical question, especially if it is, he doesn’t want to deal with Ren’s momentary smugness. He’s smug anyway, smirking against Hux’s neck and pushing with the Force so he can’t pretend not to feel it, and then sinking dramatically down halfway on top of Hux.

“I can’t write when you’re on top of me like this.”

“So don’t.”

“Because you’re leaving, I have to make adjustments to make, as soon as possible, to ensure everything goes smoothly.”

“You can do that tomorrow. It’s not like they’re going to read it before then. You have time.”

“Time is a luxury,” says Hux, repeating the phrase exactly the strained way his academy instructors had said it, the way they’d used it as a reprimand on anyone in the class who had tried to barter for extra time—time on a test or an assignment or virtual time in the fake situations they’d been managing.

Time is a luxury, for both of them. The longer they spend wasting it, the less time they have to prepare; if they push things back to make up then the enemy has even more time to prepare for them, and if they don’t get things for tomorrow planned today then they won’t be able to make further alterations as they come until they catch up. Microseconds can make the difference between survival and certain death—which Ren knows. It doesn’t need repeating, and perhaps Hux is saying it more to himself.

Ren’s thumb caresses the inside of Hux’s free wrist; he could very easily make Hux drop the datapad, make it fall to the floor and shatter the screen from the inside out despite the soft landing. But he waits, even though he is generally not a considerate man, even though time is falling away. Hux places the datapad on the side table, leaning against the clock to cover its face. Ren clasps Hux’s hand, his palm fitting much better than a flat expanse of durasteel and glass.

“Don’t you think it’s a luxury I’ve earned?” says Ren.

He is so impossible, so self-important—Hux squeezes his hand, and Ren’s impossibly soft hum of satisfaction unfurls like the wings of his command shuttle, graceful and smooth as it cuts through the air.

* * *

He wakes up early the next morning; with Ren asleep facedown and his arm draped across Hux’s chest, work is at least doable (if he lets his eyes slide to trace across the winding river of a particular scar on Ren’s upper arm now and again, well, he’s not fully awake yet; some degree of inattention is to be expected). When Ren wakes, bleary-eyed and surly as usual, they do not exchange words. Ren showers and dresses as usual, picking up his clothes from where he’d left them scattered the night before. Hux does not feel his gaze before hearing the hiss of that hideous, dented helmet; he glances up to see only the opaque obsidian color of the back before Ren flips up his hood and walks out.

Hux sees him off; it is only customary for a general to do so. The hangar is quiet; patrolling troopers give them a wide berth. The other officers are at their stations, and scheduled flight patrols are not due back for another hour. Ren stands flat-footed on the ramp of the shuttle, leveraging the additional height for all its worth—which, at this stage isn’t much other than a tilt in the sharp angle of Hux’s chin against his neck.

“I trust that you will accomplish what Leader Snoke intends.”

“That’s a wise place to put your faith, General.”

It’s barely there, but Hux can feel the smirk in his voice.

“It would be unwise to fail.”

“Indeed.”

His voice is soft, purring like an old speeder model through the vocabulator.

“I trust that the next time we meet the First Order’s reaches will be far greater.”

“If that is the wish of the Supreme Leader,” says Hux, holding his gaze on Ren’s visor.

He feels, in his head, a brief sense of pressure—not what Ren does when he’s trying to read minds, but a touch, almost like a caress with the hand. And then Ren turns, the ramp of the shuttle rising behind him. If Hux were a romantic, he might dwell on the hypotheticals—that they might never meet again, that even if they do the circumstances might be far less than optimal. But there is no time for that. The ship hums to life and rises; Hux begins to walk back before it departs the hangar—duty calls, and to that he must respond.

**Author's Note:**

> overtagged bc all the cool kids are doing it. (is this how i get more hits???)
> 
> tysm @CyanideBreathmint--the hemet voice changer thingy is a vocabulator and i need to buy the visual dictionary


End file.
